


Not MostPeople

by YouKnowNothinJonSno



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Murder as a gift, Mycroft Worries, Obsession, Possessive Moriarty, Psychopath Moriarty, Sherlock has PTSD, Take this murder as a token of my love, Unrequited Crush, john wants to help, moriarty is a serial killer, psychosexual obsession, semi-sexual fixation, slightly sherlock/moriarty, somewhat dub-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-03-09 14:02:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18918472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouKnowNothinJonSno/pseuds/YouKnowNothinJonSno
Summary: Sherlock is haunted by an event that happened over fifteen years ago when he first met a man named Jim Moriarty. Now, Moriarty is trying to get Sherlock's attention once again and he doesn't mind killing a few people to get it.





	1. If

Jim Moriarty sat on a bench, watching and listening to the crowd milling about around him. No one paid him any mind. Whiny children’s voices made him cringe, and he shied away from the offenders. The whole ‘I want this, I want that, and I’m going to throw a fit if I don’t get it!’ made him sick to his stomach. Why couldn’t people be more considerate towards others? Few people were. He tried to be invisible, and in a way that was quite considerate. He didn’t bother strangers, didn’t make others think that he didn’t care about them enough, or cared too much. He stood on the bus, if only one person had no place to sit, even if the person in question was ungrateful and annoying. Giving money to the homeless that begged degradingly on the street in the cold or the heat. The only people he was in relatively constant contact with were his landlord, his next-door neighbor, and his step-mother. His father was long dead, his mother left when he was barely one, and he never had any friends to speak of. Neighbors and landlords were impossible to avoid. His step-mother and him were quite close, as if she were his real mother — she had married his dad when Jim was six — but close for Jim would be casual acquaintances for most people. He had never been like most people. A quote from E. E. Cummings resonated with him: “If mostpeople were to be born twice they’d improbably call it dying — you and I are not snobs. We can never be born enough.”

What Jim wanted, and always had wanted, was to meet some of those people who were not snobs, not mostpeople. Solitude suited him just fine, but he needed to find them, just to know they existed. This was the second day he’d been loitering at the most popular lookouts at the Cairngorms National Park. So many people here — Americans, Englishmen, Scotsmen, even an Indian family — surely _one_ of them must be like him. His step-mother had insisted he take a vacation, and despite his initial repulsion at the mundane idea, he soon thought of the opportunity it presented. Hunting in a crowd. It was a five-hour drive from where he resided. It would be worth it. He had to be sure of that.

Mostpeople wouldn’t understand his logic, but it made perfect sense to him. He didn’t need to explain it to anyone else. It was his ingenuity alone.

The voices bombarding Jim’s ears parted for the quietest voice of all, muttering under his breath: “I don't want to go to the next lookout. It’s all the same view anyway, just at slightly different angles.” But as he turned casually towards the small voice, he saw a boy following dutifully after his family without further fuss, and it was evident that they hadn’t heard his measly protest. The boy’s head was bowed and covered in black curls, and he looked about sixteen years old. Jim Moriarty watched him with interest, unseen by the boy or his parents or anyone else in the hoard of detestable human beings. As he trudged after his family down the path, Jim stood and followed at a measured distance, pretending to admire the view though his entire focus was on the black-haired boy.

No complaints to his family, even though his lean form visibly shook with cold beneath his jacket. Jim was fascinated. Was this one of the not-mostpeople? His family — a woman, a man, and an older boy (eighteen, perhaps?) — _ooh_ ed and _ahh_ ed over nearly everything, and despite the distaste that would flash across his face, he smiled at them, and stood in pictures at their bequest. So considerate to others, though they weren’t considerate to him. This was more than Jim had ever managed. It took a great effort, he knew, and every time the boy’s family looked away from him, Jim could see how it drained this boy as well.

Sherlock. They called him Sherlock. He liked the taste of it on his tongue. Jim was hungry for more information. What was his exact age? What was his last name? His middle name? Did he ever do anything for himself? What did he want to do in life? What made him happy? Jim observed the boy’s every movement, every expression and behavior.

By the time the family had gotten to the next main lookout, Jim trailing along behind them still, he knew that this boy, this Sherlock, was not like mostpeople.

—

Sherlock Holmes stood waiting for the bus that would take him and his family back to the visitor’s center, shivering in his thin coat. His family didn’t notice his trembling, toasty warm in their winter jackets, and Sherlock bit back his irritation. It didn’t matter. The cold didn’t matter. He didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except his family. And he wasn’t even entirely sure they mattered as much as he pretended they did. They were merely an excuse for him to stay, because he didn’t have anywhere else to go.

A loosely packed ball of snow powdered the back of his neck in stinging cold. “Got you!” Mycroft hollered from somewhere behind him.

Sherlock wiped the annoyance from his face expertly and plastered on a playful scowl as he turned around. “You asked for it!” he called back, scooping up a handful of snow in his achingly cold hands. Mycroft grinned as Sherlock threw his snowball, purposefully avoiding his brother’s exposed face and neck, and instead catching him on his impenetrable ski jacket. Mycroft laughed at this ‘miss’, and hurled another handful at Sherlock’s head, which dodged the collision by centimeters. The coolness of its passing caused his scalp to prickle with goosebumps. Sherlock stooped to gather up more snow, but when he straightened, Mycroft had disappeared. He spun around, brushing the snow from his freezing fingers in hope that the fight was over. Of course, that was when the pile of snow was dumped onto Sherlock’s curly black hair, coating him in white. He suppressed the violent shudders as he quickly dislodged what he could of the cold snowflakes. They melted against his skin, a chill seeping into his veins. He knew Mycroft would expect an unhappy scowl, knew he sort of wanted that, so Sherlock gave him what he wanted. At least he didn’t have to laugh it off. His parents smiled at their antics, but didn’t do anything to assist the pale, shaking boy with snow down the back of his jacket. It melted into his skin before he could remove his coat.

Luckily, that was when the bus came, and Sherlock gratefully stepped into the warmth, thanking the driver as he did so. The bus was crowded, and Sherlock automatically moved to the rear of the bus and stood. He felt eyes on him, but he wasn’t sure whose they were. His family sat in various places, paying him no mind. Who would notice Sherlock Holmes?

Once everyone had boarded, the bus jerked forward, and Sherlock stumbled a bit, off balance, before someone grabbed his arm to steady him. He looked up in surprise at the show of kindness, thanking and apologizing at once, but the man waved off his words. The man’s gaze was intense, and Sherlock got the uncanny feeling that these were the eyes that had been watching him.

“Here, sit,” the stranger said, standing and offering his seat to the shaky boy.

“Oh, thank you, but – ” Sherlock began before the man cut him off.

“I insist,” he said forcefully, and Sherlock felt he had no other option but to take the seat. Despite the man’s kindness, he made Sherlock uncomfortable.

“Thank you,” Sherlock repeated. The man stood above him in the only available space, but it felt like he was cornering Sherlock. The boy shifted in his seat anxiously.

“I’m Jim,” the man introduced himself, still staring intently at him.

“Sherlock,” he returned, forcing himself to hold Jim’s gaze. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Jim was smiling, and Sherlock glanced towards his parents and brother, who weren’t looking his way.

_Oh, just for once, can they please pay attention to me?_ Sherlock vainly hoped.

“Are you here long?” Jim continued, and his curiosity betrayed his interest. Sherlock cleared his mind of all distractions, and put his whole focus on the stranger in front of him, like Mycroft had taught him. _The power of observation is the first step towards the power of deduction. Be a detective._

Jim wore a padded, but fitted black trench coat, tied at the waist, and tight black jeans with (also black) boots that were meant for fashion more than for hiking. His dark hair was slicked back and short. He had pale skin and a local Scottish accent. His eyes were sparkling, as focused on Sherlock as Sherlock was on him. This disturbed Sherlock so much he lost his concentration, and sent another frantic glance towards his family.

Mycroft was staring right at him, eyes narrowed. He looked at the man who was leaning over his brother slightly more than necessary. Then Mycroft stood, though the bus was still in motion, and shoved past people on his way towards Sherlock and Jim. Sherlock tried not to appear overly relieved.

Without looking away from Sherlock, Jim stepped back and smirked at him. “Maybe I’ll see you around, Sherlock.” The bus stopped and people spilled out the doors just as Mycroft reached his brother. Jim was lost in the surging crowd.

“Who was that?” Mycroft questioned with a frown.

Sherlock shrugged, inexplicably chagrined.

“What did he say to you?” Mycroft pressed.

“He just gave me his seat, and made small talk,” Sherlock muttered, not meeting his brother’s concerned eyes.

“Come on,” he said, pulling Sherlock to his feet. “This is our stop.”

In an uncharacteristic show of insolence, Sherlock snatched his hand back and exited the bus in front of his brother, remarking in a tone even Sherlock knew was whiny, “I’m not a kid, Mycroft. I’m fifteen.”

—

He was wrong, then. Sherlock was _fifteen_ , not sixteen.

Jim relished their encounter, and the effect it had had on the boy. That snappish tone, the surprise on Mycroft’s face, Sherlock storming off the bus with nervous energy, his eyes scanning the crowd for the man he’d talked to on the bus, but not finding Jim where he stood still and silent in the shadow of the trees.

Jim Moriarty could _eat_ that delicate boy.

—

Jim followed Sherlock around all the next day, but kept carefully out of sight of him and his family. He eavesdropped on their conversations as often as he could manage, though to his disappointment, Sherlock didn’t contribute much. He did like that about the boy, but he was longing to hear that soft voice, like music in his ears.

The parents did offer helpful information, though. His name was Sherlock Holmes. They were staying at the park for one more day, before they left early on the morning of the day after that. Jim had only one day left. He learned that the Holmes family lived in London, but not precisely where. He was getting antsy just waiting around for an opportunity. He wanted to make his move _now_. But Sherlock didn’t stray from his family’s side for a moment all that day.

Jim had to control his sudden burst of anger at Sherlock’s family. They didn’t care about him, unless it suited them. But Jim cared, and Sherlock deserved to know that _someone_ did.

His rage stayed with him all night, keeping him awake as it built up to a crescendo. The morning couldn’t come soon enough. Today, Jim took the steak knife from his hotel room with him.

—

Sherlock walked along after his family, again shivering from the cold. After he’d blown off his brother’s concern two days ago, Mycroft had been ignoring him. Not enough so that their parents would notice anything was amiss, but enough so that Sherlock knew. Anger bubbled up inside of him at this. Sherlock was always putting Mycroft before himself, always trying to make him happy, and the one time Sherlock expressed something other than altruism, Mycroft thought of him as selfish and spoiled, and made sure Sherlock knew it. He tried to vent his immense annoyance by kicking a block of ice off the trail, but all that accomplished was hurting his toes.

“Look, deer!” Mycroft suddenly hissed to his family, pointing into the snowy forest. Sure enough, two doe meandered around trees, nibbling on little plants that barely poked above the snow, unbothered by the presence of humans.

Sherlock came quietly up to his brother’s side as he and their parents took pictures. Mycroft was a big fan of the wild. Not much else got him so excited. But after ten minutes of fawning over the animals, Sherlock was jumping to keep warm.

“I’m going to go ahead, okay?” he checked in with his family, who nodded their assent distractedly. Sherlock walked quickly forward on the path, not held back by his family anymore. The day was relatively new, and the sun didn’t touch the path hidden by mountains yet. No one else seemed to be out here with him. Sherlock lost himself in thought as he wandered down the winding trail.

He hadn’t seen that stranger, Jim, since the day on the bus. He wasn’t entirely sure if he was glad about this or not. In a way, the encounter was livening — how his heart rate had picked up in his chest, the nervous twiddling of his fingers, the satisfaction of not being the sacrificial one for once — but he was automatically wary of the man. Obsession was the word that came to mind, but Sherlock didn’t see how anyone could be obsessed with _him_. He was nothing special; in fact, he was less than nothing. But he knew that Jim had been watching him before they even spoke. And that intense gaze, those black eyes. The way he’d leaned over Sherlock.

Sherlock concluded that the man was terrifying and obviously dangerous, yet strangely enticing. It was an odd revelation.

He was jarred out of his thoughts by the crunch of a footstep somewhere behind the trees adjacent to him. Sherlock stopped and listened, but there was no more noise. Fear spiked through his system, but he knew it was illogical, and dismissed it as such. It didn’t leave his mind, but cold logic took front. It was most likely an animal. Perhaps it was another hiker that had strayed from the path. Maybe it was Mycroft trying to ambush him again.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock ventured, staring at the area the noise had come from. “Is that you?”

No one answered, but there were no more suspicious sounds. It could have been a clump of snow falling from a tree limb, or he could have even imagined it.

No, he couldn’t have imagined it. He didn’t imagine things. _Trust your senses_ , that was what Mycroft always told him. He trusted his senses. _Be a detective_.

Feigning boredom, Sherlock ambled up to the trees, narrowing his eyes as he scanned the area. _Don’t narrow your eyes, it restricts your field of view_. Mycroft himself had trouble with that rule. Sherlock calmly surveyed the woods in front of him, expression blank. He noted the unbroken planes of snow in the foreground, little critter marks further back, deer prints. The direction of the wind: southerly. The sun had almost peaked over the mountain to spill down onto the path, but not quite. It was nearly ten in the morning. Cautiously, Sherlock took a step forward off the path. Something made that sound, and he was going to find out what it was. Besides, he didn’t have anything better to do. It was good practice.

Many of the trees lacked their foliage, but the few in the immediate vicinity that didn’t would be perfect hiding places for animals. Or people. Only one of the trees caught his attention, and he tried to figure out why. As he stalked towards it, he spotted something hanging from one of the branches. Upon closer inspection, he identified it as a small piece of cloth, black cotton, probably from a shirt. He was just reaching his hand out to touch it, when something attacked him from behind.

— 

Jim Moriarty tackled Sherlock Holmes to the ground, their fall cushioned by the banks of snow. Sherlock reared his head back, spitting snow out of his mouth so that he could draw in a breath. Jim whipped out his knife and held it to the boy’s throat as he straddled his waist from behind. “Don’t scream,” he warned, “or I’ll slit your throat.” Jim felt Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bob against the blade, and resisted the urge to press the blade closer to his skin. It was oddly sensual to threaten the boy’s life like this. It was pleasurable.

Impulsively, Jim flipped Sherlock onto his back, still keeping the knife at Sherlock’s throat and his legs straddling the boy’s. Sherlock tried to hide his fear, but there was sweat on his upper lip, and his pulse fluttered visibly in the veins on his neck.

“Are you afraid of me, Sherlock?” he asked with a wicked smile.

The boy was silent until Jim applied a bit of pressure to the blade at his throat. “No,” he lied. Jim just smiled. “How old are you?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

Jim’s grin faltered in momentary surprise, but he quickly regained his composure. “Twenty-two,” he answered.

“What do you want with me?” The boy was quite experienced in hiding his true emotions, but he’d never had to hide fear before — that much was evident.

“You’re so selfless, you know,” Jim mused. “So kind, even to those who aren’t kind to you. You put so much effort into being considerate to others. It’s remarkable.”

Sherlock’s bewilderment broke through his fragile facade of disinterest. “So you _attack_ me?” he questioned incredulously.

“They don’t care about you,” Jim continued, trying to make this young boy understand. “They don’t notice you shivering in this flimsy coat, they don’t bother to ask what you want to do, they don’t see the look of distaste and malcontent on your face.”

Sherlock swallowed his surprise at Jim’s attentiveness, and instead said, “That doesn't concern you.”

“On the contrary,” Jim replied eagerly, “it does concern me. You don’t deserve to be treated so poorly.”

“Well, at least they don’t hold knives to my throat,” Sherlock commented dryly, but his composure faltered as the knife drew a line of blood on his neck.

“I just needed to talk to you alone,” Jim explained calmly.

“And here we are, talking alone.” Sherlock was struggling not to give into panic, and sarcasm apparently was his final defense. “What do you want to talk about?”

Jim channelled his nervous energy into the task of holding Sherlock down more securely. “I want you to come with me,” he told the boy with barely concealed excitement.

Sherlock’s surprise spilled onto his face again. “Me? Go with you? Why? Where?”

“You are not like mostpeople,” he said. “We are the same. You are me. I am you.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed in panic. “And if I refuse?” he asked evenly.

The knife drew a few more beads of blood. “I think you know the answer to that question,” Jim responded in equal calmness.

Sherlock swallowed, inadvertently cutting himself on the blade again. “I’m not sure I understand what you want me for,” he breathed quietly.

“Don’t stall,” Jim sneered in response, anxious that Sherlock’s family would come upon them at any moment.

Sherlock barked out a short laugh, stress from the situation expressing itself in curious ways. Then he told Jim Moriarty, “I’m not going anywhere with you, creep.”

Jim’s jaw worked for a few seconds, rage boiling in his blood. He pulled the knife away from the boy’s throat, and Sherlock blinked in surprise and relief.

Then Jim plunged the blade into Sherlock’s chest to the hilt, between the boy’s ribs.

“Wrong answer, Sherlock Holmes.”

—

Agony. Sherlock’s chest was on fire. He writhed, but that only dug the knife in further, so he forced himself to stay still. His muscles clenched around the blade, causing more pain, but he couldn’t relax them for the life of him — literally. He coughed, but breathing was torturous.

Through bleary eyes, he saw Jim’s smiling face above him. How had he known Sherlock’s last name?

What did it matter? He was a stalker; it couldn’t be that hard.

Sherlock didn’t scream, didn’t make a noise — he could barely draw breath. It felt like a white hot poker was stabbing him, rather than just a knife. Jim was saying something, but he couldn’t hear him. Everything hurt so bad.

The blade was yanked out of Sherlock’s chest without warning, and Sherlock gasped involuntarily. It was somehow important that he didn’t scream. He wanted to be strong. He wanted to be like his brother. He wanted to be…


	2. MostPeople

…a detective. The only consulting detective in the world. He was who the police turned to when they were stumped by a case, which was often, even though the majority of the cases were simple enough. Today, he was neatly wrapping up a homicide that was obviously committed by the brother of the victim. How the police overlooked such glaring details was beyond him. 

“How did you know?” Lestrade would always wonder.

“He had a green ladder,” Sherlock replied shortly. Again, how they could miss the chips of green paint on the sill was incredible. Slight marks about a foot apart rested on the edge of the windowsill, indicating a ladder stood there. A green ladder. The brother had a green ladder in his basement, and when checked by forensics, plain evidence was found in the form of blood smears and fingerprints.

These cases were getting increasingly boring. He was desperate for a clever one, something to challenge his mind.

—

The only reason Sherlock took the pills was because he couldn’t concentrate without them. And to keep getting them, he had to get checked up by a doctor. He was supposed to go in at least twice a month, but he only went when his supply was running low, and he needed them to approve a refill. Unfortunately, this was one of those days. He took the last Vicodin, then stuffed the bottle in the pocket of his trench coat as he swept out the door of his flat. Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson bade him a good day, and he barely nodded in response. The taxi took him to Bart’s hospital, and he first stopped by the morgue, where Molly was working.

“Good morning, Sherlock,” she greeted him brightly.

“Anything fresh?” he asked.

“A couple here,” she replied, leading him to two body bags. “Just came in an hour ago.”

“Boyfriend?” Sherlock asked as he unzipped the first bag.

“Sorry?” Molly replied haltingly.

“Stab wound…in the heart, bled out in a matter of minutes. Junkie, heroin. The murderer was about 5’2”, judging by the height and angle of the wound. Is the other the same?” Sherlock asked nonchalantly, fighting to keep the tremor out of his voice.

“Yeah, she was using as well. They were found together. Sorry, what do you mean ‘boyfriend’?” Molly repeated, watching as Sherlock snapped on some disposable rubber gloves and poked around the victim’s chest wound.

“You’re wearing lipstick,” Sherlock muttered as he worked methodically. He wouldn’t let himself be disabled by the irrational fear building in his chest. People were stabbed every day all over the world — just because he’d been wounded similarly, didn’t mean every other person knifed in the heart was killed by the same man who’d stabbed him when he was a teenager. And yet, he couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling. “You don’t wear lipstick to work. A coworker then. You’re seeing him today.”

Molly stayed silent a moment before replying with “No, I’m not seeing anyone.” Another long pause as Sherlock took off his gloves and zipped up the body bag. “Would you like to get some chips later?” Molly tentatively offered, subconsciously twirling her hair.

“Don’t do that,” Sherlock demanded, tossing the used gloves into the garbage.

She froze. “Don’t do what?”

“Twirl your hair. It makes you look like a schoolgirl with a crush on her teacher.” The door swung closed behind him before Molly could stutter out didn’t he want to see the second body.

—

“Mr. Holmes?” the receptionist called after ten minutes of Sherlock sitting in a chair in the waiting room. He stood immediately, agitated from having to sit there wasting his time for something he shouldn’t need. But he did need the pills. He couldn’t function without them.

“This way, please,” she continued, leading him to a room. “You usually see Dr. Stamford, right?”

Sherlock nodded in annoyance.

“Dr. Stamford is on vacation for three weeks, but Dr. Watson will be here shortly. If you would take a seat?”

“I’ll stand,” he snapped. “I won’t be here long.”

The receptionist closed the door without another word, leaving Sherlock alone. He sighed dramatically as he took his seat, wondering whether _this_ murderer was his Jim. Before he could ponder the matter further, the door opened and a short man in a white laboratory coat walked in holding a clipboard. Sherlock shot to his feet, anxious to get this stupid evaluation over with so that he could get back to his work.

“You are – ” the doctor began.

“Yes, I’m Sherlock Holmes; I’m feeling just fine; no side effects from the Vicodin that I’ve been taking for over fifteen years; I’m in perfect health; and you should leave the receptionist — she’s clearly sleeping with Dr. Stamford.”

Dr. Watson stared at Sherlock in surprise for a moment, before saying, “Ah, Dr. Stamford did say you were very…observant.”

“No, he said I was a pompous psychopath with absolutely no regard for another’s right to privacy,” Sherlock corrected calmly. “Now, will you write me my prescription?”

Dr. Watson smiled patiently. “I have to give you a quick physical first, before I decide whether or not to refill your prescription.”

“Dr. Stamford never needed to do that,” Sherlock snapped.

“Yes, and he advised me not to either,” Dr. Watson replied honestly. “But that’s not professional at all.” The doctor paused as Sherlock sighed irritably. “He mentioned monetary motivation for not checking up on you thoroughly?”

Sherlock glanced sharply at the doctor’s face, but the man wasn’t lying. This was Sherlock and Mycroft’s relationship with each other. Mycroft would pull strings with his high status in government for Sherlock, and Sherlock would accept these favors without acknowledging they existed. Perhaps most people would find this relationship odd and unbalanced, but Sherlock Holmes was not mostpeople — this was just the way it was. “I’m sure you could receive the same – ”

“No,” Dr. Watson interrupted vehemently, “I’m not taking any bribes. If Dr. Stamford hadn’t done me such a huge favor a while back, I would have reported this to his superiors. As it is, I’ve told him that if this continues, I _would_ report it. He went on a vacation and transferred you to me.”

Sherlock sneered, “His superiors are more easily bought than he is.”

Dr. Watson frowned deeply. “Like it or not – ”

“Not,” Sherlock assured him.

“ – I am your doctor now,” he continued, ignoring the interruption, “and I decide whether or not you really need the Vicodin.” The doctor returned his attention to his notes and requested absently, “Would you mind lifting your shirt?”

Sherlock didn’t move, glaring at the stubborn doctor. Dr. Watson put his clipboard down with a sigh. “Mr. Holmes, if you don’t want to continue on this medication, you can leave, but if you do want to, you’re going to have to cooperate.”

Sherlock glanced at his watch, and decided to hell with this. “I don’t need any drugs anyway,” he proclaimed whilst striding out the door. The doctor stopped him.

“Here’s my card if you change your mind” was all he said before permitting the grumbling man to leave. Sherlock made sure the doctor was watching when he ripped the card in half and tossed the pieces into the garbage. The closing door cut off the doctor’s sigh.

—

Greg Lestrade met Sherlock Holmes outside the crime scene. “What’s happened?” the consulting detective demanded.

“We’ve got another stab victim, in addition to the two this morning,” Lestrade reported, noticing how Sherlock’s gait faltered almost imperceptibly at the mention of another stab victim. He thought it best not to comment.

“Same killer?” Sherlock asked clinically.

“Nothing definite really,” Lestrade admitted, “but they were killed in the same way. Can’t rule it out just yet.”

“And that’s why I’m here,” Sherlock surmised.

Lestrade bowed his head a little. “Yes.”

“Inside?” he asked dubiously as he was led into the building. “The other two were in an alley.”

“Yes, but the scenes weren’t terribly far apart — only three blocks in an hour.”

Withdrawing a plastic disposable glove, Sherlock knelt beside the woman’s body. “When did she die?”

Lestrade stared at the consulting detective in surprise. When Sherlock glanced impatiently up at him, Lestrade quickly told him, “11:30 this morning. We found her just now, three hours after.” As Sherlock ran a gloved hand along the seams of her coat, Lestrade hesitantly asked, “Sherlock, are you alright?”

Sherlock didn’t look up from his work. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked lightly.

Lestrade frowned. “You never need to ask when they died.”

At this, Sherlock froze. Then he was standing, and pulling off his glove, which he dropped unceremoniously on the ground. “Perhaps I am a bit under the weather,” he muttered as he walked from the scene — slightly unsteadily, Lestrade noticed. With a last concerned and puzzled look after Sherlock, he returned to his investigation.

—

Dr. John Watson got off work at 3:00 in the afternoon today, and he was nodding a goodbye to his secretary — who actually _had_ been cheating on him with Dr. Stamford — when a man burst through the door to the waiting room.

“Pardon me, sir,” Dr. Watson began, “but our offices are closing for the – Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock Holmes shut the door behind him methodically before facing the doctor again. He said nothing, but his hair was windblown, and his eyes were wild.

“Would you like to speak in my office?” John proffered, fumbling for his keys.

Sherlock nodded mutely, waiting for John to unlock and open his door before striding purposefully forward.

“Doctor!” the secretary called from behind her desk. “Should I write him down as an emergency appointment?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dr. Watson waved her off as he followed Sherlock into the office and closed the door behind them.

Sherlock cut straight to the point: “I need my pills. I can’t focus without them.”

John set his bag down with a sigh. “Is that because you’re in pain, or because you’re going through the beginning stages of withdrawal?”

Sherlock worked his jaw testily for a moment before replying, “It doesn’t matter. What matters is I can’t work without them.”

John leaned against his desk as he surveyed the man. “What _is_ your work, exactly?” he questioned.

Sherlock’s fingers jumped anxiously against his thigh. “I’m a consulting detective.”

John frowned in confusion. “I’ve never–”

“Yes, that’s because I invented the term. I’m who the police turn to when they’re stuck.”

John gave a little snort. “You must be busy then.”

Sherlock smirked a bit in surprise. “Yes.”

“So you can’t do your job right if a withdrawal is distracting you from picking out all the little details that others miss,” the doctor surmised. Sherlock didn’t answer, his pale blue eyes staring intently at John. “Does it hurt at _all_ , then? Your stab wound?” Dr. Watson wondered casually.

Sherlock’s fingers twitched towards his ribs, but he seemed to restrain himself from actually touching the scar. “It does.”

They were silent another moment. “May I examine it?” Dr. Watson inquired politely, not moving forward until Sherlock nodded hesitantly. Since Sherlock was wearing a button-up shirt, John unbuttoned it rather than hoisting it up to the man’s chin. The scar was nicely healed and worn with time, just under his heart. With his stethoscope, Dr. Watson listened to the beat of Sherlock’s heart, which was slightly quickened and irregular. “You don’t take coronary stabilizers?” he asked, baffled.

Sherlock shook his head briefly.

Dr. Watson listened again, but the result was the same: an irregular heartbeat. John glanced doubtfully at Sherlock’s face, but the man was staring past him at nothing. He adjusted the position of the stethoscope, and said, “Take a deep breath.” His patient obeyed. He repeated this on the other side of Sherlock’s chest. “Can you take your shirt off? Here, sit.” Sherlock reluctantly slipped his shirt the rest of the way off and sat on the crinkly examination table. Dr. Watson listened to him breathe from the back. “Your left lung doesn’t fill as much as your right,” he noted.

“This is all in my records,” Sherlock snapped.

“It is,” Dr. Watson agreed wryly, “but it’s policy to reaffirm these sorts of things. That being said, why don’t you tell me about how you got your injury.”

Through clenched teeth, Sherlock ground out, “I’d rather not.”

Feigning ignorance, John pressed, “Humor me.”

Sherlock glared at him for a minute before declaring, “It’s not very humorous.”

“Of course not,” Dr. Watson said seriously, secretly pleased he was getting something out of the mysterious consulting detective that had never deigned to speak to his psychiatrists.

—

The detective was thoughtful as he glared at the doctor before him. “What do you want to know? I got stabbed in the chest. The knife damaged my left lung and cut 1.5 centimeters into my right ventricular–”

“Yes, I know about the injury itself,” Dr. Watson interrupted. “But how did it happen?”

Sherlock was tense, and he felt vulnerable — as vulnerable as he’d been before Jim had stabbed him. He didn’t like the feeling. In a moment, he was standing and pulling on his shirt. “This is a waste of my time,” he announced.

Dr. Watson didn’t object. He held out his hand. His card was in it.

Sherlock paused briefly before leaving without taking the proffered card. As he passed the unobservant secretary, he slyly snagged one of Dr. Watson’s cards from the desk. He was out the door before she could ask if he wanted to schedule his next appointment.


	3. Born Twice

John Watson heaved a sigh before regathering his things and heading for the door. He waved goodbye to the secretary as he went. Outside, he tried to hail a cab, but his phone rang and he answered it. “Dr. Watson,” a man’s voice said.

“Yes, that’s me,” he replied. “Who’s this?”

“He talked to you,” the man said, something akin to curiosity present in his voice.

“I’m sorry?” John asked, his mind jumping to Sherlock Holmes. “Excuse me, who is this?”

“Let’s talk somewhere more private.” It didn’t sound like a suggestion.

“Who _are_ you? _Where_ are you?” John asked in befuddlement.

“Get in the car, Dr. Watson,” the voice said before the line went dead. A moment later, a sleek black car pulled up to the curb where he stood. The passenger window rolled down to reveal a pretty woman texting busily on her phone. Without looking up, she said, “Are you getting in?”

On the whim of his insane curiosity, he hesitated only a moment before sliding into the backseat.

—

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” the doctor queried wearily.

“No,” the woman answered, her voice kind.

“Or who I’m meeting?” he tried hopelessly.

She didn’t even bother to answer this time.

“Will it be much longer?” Dr. Watson ventured.

“No,” she said again.

There was a brief silence, before Dr. Watson became uncomfortable. “I’m John Watson,” he told her.

“I know,” she replied.

Well, of course she would know. She was his escort after all.

When they arrived fifteen minutes later in an abandoned building, he got out of the car without question, looking around for his ‘kidnapper.’ After a few moments, a smartly dressed man in a suit holding a closed umbrella like a cane appeared, sauntering out of the shadows.

“Dr. Watson,” the man greeted cordially. “I thought we might discuss some things.”

John was not intimidated or impressed. “Evidently you did think that,” he replied stonily. “And you are?”

“Namely,” the man who had an abnormally long hooked nose continued as if John hadn’t spoken, “Sherlock Holmes.”

He stopped in front of John, smiling vacantly and politely at the wary look on the other man’s face. “I don’t discuss my patients.” John stared down the mysterious stranger.

The man laughed genially. “Yes, I’m sure. But tell me, John, does he intrigue you?”

John gave nothing away. “If this is all you’ve come to talk about, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

The stranger smiled coldly. “What if,” he proposed casually, “I were to offer you a significant sum of money for, say, monthly updates on how Mr. Holmes is faring, and what he’s doing?”

The doctor smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. “What if,” he countered, “I were to decline that generous offer?”

A silent staring contest ensued for the next few seconds. Then the stranger chuckled good-naturedly. “Well, I can’t make you,” he replied, though his expression said otherwise.

“No, you can’t.” John turned to go.

“John,” the man tried one last time, “are you sure?”

John didn’t stop or turn. “Positive.”

“He’s not what you think, you know,” the man added, obviously trying to pique John’s interest.

John sighed, not wanting to give this stranger the satisfaction of getting to him, but undeniably curious. Resignedly, John paused and faced the man again. “Oh?” he prompted, unwilling to disclose anything he did think about Sherlock Holmes.

The corner of the man’s mouth quirked upward slightly at the win as he explained smugly, “He’s damaged, Dr. Watson. Not just the scar. He needs more than a good doctor to help him.”

John snorted humorlessly. “Well, he’s in luck then; I’m a _very_ good doctor.”

The man gave him a scathing look, as if he wanted to admonish John for bragging. Instead he went on, “He needs a friend.”

Baffled, John looked around at the woman and the driver for some kind of clue, but the driver was staring straight ahead and the woman was still busy texting. “What are you, his mother?” John finally scoffed.

The man tilted his head in what could be considered a nod. “Practically.”

_This is some sort of joke_ , John decided, bewildered by these strange companions. “Well, I must be off,” he declared, turning towards the exit again.

What the man said next forced John to stop in his tracks. “When Sherlock was fifteen years old he was attacked by a man named Jim Moriarty. We never found him. But even months after the incident, Sherlock insisted Jim was going to find him and take him away somewhere. Jim became his monster under the bed. He couldn’t sleep on his own for years. And he’s never been able to trust anyone. Not even me.”

John stared openly at him. “You’re his brother,” he surmised.

The man sighed. “Yes. Mycroft Holmes.”

“You want me to spy on your own brother?” John asked, baffled once more.

“How else will I keep him safe?” Mycroft countered ominously. On some unseen signal, the pretty woman exited the vehicle and held the door for him. “Do stay in touch,” Mycroft farewelled, and the woman held out a business card.

It was all entirely too suspicious and bizarre. There were many things Mycroft wasn’t telling him. And besides, John would never spy on a patient, no matter who he or his brother were. Without further discussion, John turned again and strode past the car toward the exit, trying not to feel too shaken.

“John,” the man’s voice wafted after him even as he walked out into the starting rain, “I hope you’re a very good _friend_ , too.”

—

Back in his flat, Sherlock lay on his couch, deliberating. On his arms, several extra nicotine patches almost blended into his pale skin. Now he could think clearly.

Jim Moriarty, a name that had vanished from all documents and files since that fateful day almost twenty years ago now. All that was left was a scar. And…whispers. So many whispers of a man, a criminal mastermind, who worked like a spider. A man called _Moriarty_. Was it the same Moriarty? Sherlock didn’t doubt it. How could it not be?

A phone ringing downstairs suddenly interrupted his thoughts. Sighing, he tried to ignore it as it rang once…twice…three times…. “Mrs. Hudson! Phone!” he bellowed, hoping that would be enough to rouse her. She gave no answer as the ringing went on for the the fourth time…fifth time…sixth time…. It finally stopped, much to Sherlock’s relief. Trying to return to his train of thoughts, he settled into the couch once more – only to have the phone begin ringing again. “Oh for god’s sake,” he muttered, standing and stomping all the way down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson’s bakery. She wasn’t in it seemed, so Sherlock took the liberty of answering. “Hello?” he asked grumpily.

There was a moment’s pause, before… “Sherlock…it’s been too long.”

Sherlock could’ve sworn his heart stopped at the sound of that voice. He knew that voice, knew it better than he knew his own. Even after all these years. “Moriarty,” he breathed.

“Oh, please, darling boy,” the man replied, “call me Jim.”


	4. Improbably Call It Dying

Sherlock couldn’t help the glances he kept throwing around himself, as if Jim might jump out at him at any moment. “Jim,” he said, endeavoring to keep his voice controlled and calm, “I’m not sure we have much to say to each other.”

“Oh, don’t be stubborn, you know you missed me,” Jim scolded playfully, a giggle coming through the receiver that made Sherlock’s heart beat even faster. “But don’t you worry, I’ve been around, you just didn’t know it. I’ve been keeping tabs on you, making sure you’re doing alright, that no one’s taking advantage of you. Made sure those big scary doctors didn’t poke around too much. I can’t believe you’re all grown up now.”

Sherlock’s heart seemed like it was trying to beat right out of his chest. He’d assumed Mycroft had handled the doctors’ bribes, but if Jim was to be believed…all this time…. Sherlock tried to distract himself with meaningless facts – the dilemma of Coventry, the number of seats on different types of planes, the average amount of blood in the human body – but nothing could quite steady his breathing to a normal speed. “You’ve been watching me,” he said, as stoically as he could manage. “Am I so fascinating to you, Jim? Am I still so similar to you after all these years?”

“Oh no, you _have_ changed,” Jim replied, almost wistfully. “I wish I could’ve seen your transformation up close. At first, I was disappointed in you, Sherly. You weren’t supposed to be _rude_. That was what separated us out from mostpeople. But then I realized, it wasn’t manners that made us different from them – royalty are well-trained, but they’re still cattle – it was the depth of our empathy. I thought you lost that at first with how you began to treat your colleagues…but then I saw the little things you would do when you thought no one was watching. The thoughtful gestures. Covering for your friends, reminding them of anniversaries, midnight dishwashing…. You were hiding how much you cared. And once I saw that, I changed too. I changed _with_ you. I began to see the utility in hurting people who brought evil into the world. There was hope for the children of a neighborhood if the drug dealers were wiped out. I was helping. I still am helping.”

There was a moment of silence as Sherlock took it all in. The subtle creeping guilt that he might have inspired this monster.

“Sherly, tell me, did you get my present?”

Sherlock could feel his hands shaking. “Which one? The addicts or the businesswoman?”

“No, no, those are old gifts. Why don’t you open the front door?”

Ice shot through Sherlock’s veins as he whipped his head around to stare at the door. His imagination was running wild, conjuring up images of Jim waiting for him, knife in hand, ready to pounce as soon as the doorknob turned. “I don’t think I will,” Sherlock breathed out, upsettingly aware that he was giving away far too much to his enemy. He knew Jim would use his fear against him.

On the other end of the line, Jim laughed. “Don’t be a silly goose, I’m not waiting outside. I’ve left you something.”

Sherlock realized he was beginning to hyperventilate when he felt himself sway dizzily. “Why should I trust you? You want to kill me.”

“Oh, Sherly,” Jim chastised, “if I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already. I’ve been in your life, unseen, for sixteen and a half years. I think you can trust I’m not going to kill you _now_.”

“Then why did you…why did you…?” Sherlock couldn’t understand it, but his throat closed every time he tried to get out the words.

“Why did I…stab you in the heart?” Jim thankfully finished for him. “Well, to test your resilience, of course. And I’m _very_ pleased with the results. Do you think it was easy to stay away from you this long?”

Sherlock swallowed, hoping it would clear his throat a bit. “Why now?”

“Oh, my dear, _dear_ Sherly,” Jim simpered. “I must insist you retrieve my gift now. I worked hard on it all day. Just for you. Don’t worry, I’ll wait. Just leave the phone hanging.”

Without another word, Sherlock followed his instructions, gently letting the phone hang from its wall cord and silently making his way to the front door. He peered out the peephole but there was nothing to be seen. Taking a deep breath, he finally opened the door.

On the doorstep there rested a small package about the size of a bread box. For a moment, he considered leaving it out there and refusing to play Jim’s little game, but Sherlock had never been one to forfeit so easily. Leaning down, he picked up the box with care, brought it inside, and closed the door behind him. He decided to ignore the waiting phone for now as he set the package on Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen table and retrieved a pair of scissors. There was minimal tape and it opened easily with a single slice of the blade.

It took Sherlock a moment to realize what it was. He had gingerly pulled out the black fabric and watched it unfold before he recognized the garment and he dropped it like it had burned him. Inside his chest, a dull ache began to blossom from his old injury, spreading what felt like ice throughout his torso. Against his will, his body took up a low tremor, starting at his fingers and traveling deep into his bones. He couldn’t tell if it was from cold or something else.

On the floor where he’d dropped it lay his old winter coat, thin black fabric stained a dark rusty color around the jagged edges of a tear. He had still been wearing that jacket when he was taken to the emergency room. He remember they had to cut it off him. That meant Jim had been there, with him, when he’d gone through surgery – he was right _there_ and no one noticed – he could’ve been one of the _nurses_. But there was something else resting in the folds of fabric, something small and dark glinting in the dim lights from outside. Against all his better instincts, Sherlock bent down and brushed some of the bunched up fabric off of it. It took him a second to recognize what the bloodied slice of meat actually was, but once he did, he was standing and stumbling back, his stomach threatening to empty itself on the floor.

A low whistle emanated from the telephone still hanging in the hall. It was the faint tune of “La Gazza Ladra” by Gioachino Rossini – roughly: _The Thieving Magpie_. Sherlock pressed a hand to his heart, an annoyingly stubborn habit that revealed his weakness to anyone watching – but bugger it, no one was watching him now and he needed to regain some composure before he resumed their conversation. Assiduously avoiding the spectacle on the floor, he made his way back to the receiver. After a final fortifying breath, he picked up the phone again. As if sensing a change, the whistling stopped. They both waited in silence for a moment, wondering who would speak first.

“Gifts aren’t generally stolen,” Sherlock finally mused.

Jim huffed a laugh. “I hardly stole it, dear, it was going to be thrown out anyway. Call it sentimentality. I’m a sucker for mementos. They mean so much more than store-bought gifts, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sherlock couldn’t help the testiness that filtered into his tone. “Are you referring to the jacket or the slice of human heart?”

“Don’t do that, Sherly,” Jim chided in clear disappointment, “there really is no point. I know you too well to fall for your deflections. You _love_ gifts. I’ve been watching, remember?” Jim’s smirk was audible.

“So you’ve said,” Sherlock muttered, trying to work out the purpose of this little chat. Why was he reaching out _now_ , after all these years? What did he want?

“Well?” Jim prompted after a moment’s pause. He seemed a bit put out. “Do you like it?”

Sherlock’s eyes darted back to the crumpled jacket with its rusty stain and thinly-sliced heart sampler, his own heart squeezing painfully at the sight, and returned his gaze firmly to the wall. “I’m flattered you kept it so long. Though I assure you the additional gift is not mine.”

Jim tutted. “Sherly, my dear, of course it’s not _yours_ – I know what _your_ heart looks like. Just think of it as a sort of symbolism. It’s the part you don’t have – I tried to be as accurate as possible.” Sherlock shivered at the implication that Jim may have been in the operating chamber with his unconscious body. “The jacket however I _have_ been saving for a special occasion. You don’t know how much I’ve been looking forward to us meeting again, do you? It’s been plaguing my mind since that day: ‘When will we be able to meet again and see eye to eye?’ Sixteen years is a maddeningly long time when you break it down into moments like that.”

“Then why did you wait?” Sherlock breathed out, unable to contain the question any longer. He had to understand, no matter the cost.

Jim tsked at him. “That’s not the question you should be asking, Sherly.”

“What question _should_ I be asking then, _Jim_?” Sherlock snapped back, glad his annoyance was able to overcome his fear for the moment.

“ _Mm_ , say my name like that again,” the other man half-moaned, his voice rougher and lower than before. The sudden change sent a particularly violent shudder through Sherlock’s spine. His mouth felt glued shut. “Shy?” Jim eventually muttered, voice returned to its normal cadence. “Ah, well, next time. But to answer your question, dear, it’s: what was I waiting _for_?”

The question seemed to echo inside Sherlock’s head, searching for an answer he knew must be somehow obvious. “Ta-ta, Sherlock Holmes. I look forward to our meeting.”

Sherlock startled so hard at those words he almost dropped the phone. Of _course_ Jim was planning to meet him in person – why should that surprise him? He really needed to learn how to better control his breathing.

“Oh, and Sherly?” Jim added nonchalantly, “put on that jacket – you’re shaking like a leaf.” It wasn’t until after the line went dead that he wondered how Jim knew he was shaking.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you want more :)


End file.
